Midnight


It's midnight, the hour of bewitching dreams
As some sleep and others fret after a day's toil
Of lonesome thoughts under melancholy stars
When man yearns for the peace that cannot be
For the innocence of childhood  now long gone
Wishing yesterday were here if only for a spell.

It's midnight, time for the soul to take flight
For the weary heart to rest awhile in the night
From its ceaseless and oft wearisome pounding
And for the restless spirit to wrest itself free
From the straps and fetters of its corporeal frame:
God's castigation of man's impudence insufferable.

It's midnight, an hour propitious for ancient oracles
If the Mind but be freed from the tenets of Reason
And be allowed to soar and break ever so happily
Through the confines of earthly time, its own realms
To find and explore, its stars in full glory to let shine
And in full knowledge change the course of Destiny.

It's midnight, time to reflect on the dying Christ
Of man's inhumanity towards man, and of Creation's
Infamous decrees that condemn all his lofty dreams
To early oblivion, and his soul to a bottomless pit
Forever adrift in perpetual darkness, he who forever
Seeks the comforting warmth of the primeval womb.

It's midnight, as always far above bright and pale
The stars and planets shine as they've done for eons
Of time under the same earth and the same oceans.
Generations of suffering souls have come and gone
In meditation sublime and with a thirst unquenchable
And have died never knowing why they ever lived.

It's midnight, and yet deep inside, lest it be an illusion
There's an intimation of the Universe' s intimate Voice
That seems to speak to the soul through limitless Time
Of a place unknown and yet so familiar, whence it came
For its fragrance is of fruits and flowers that it once knew
In a land that still lives in man's undying myths and legends.

Claudio Wye
February 4, 1999